


Tumblr Drabbles

by redandgold



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, drabbles n thangs!, feel free 2 send me prompts on tumblr as well tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-09-19 16:26:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 17,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9450233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redandgold/pseuds/redandgold
Summary: Things I've written for prompts and the like on tumblr, mostly carraville, co92, and vintage Liverpool (shuT UP).





	1. carraville + sleeping

**Author's Note:**

> All chapters are labelled with the pairings / prompts and other notes can be found in the chapters themselves / enjoy <3  
> hit me up on tumblr [here](http://carraville.tumblr.com)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> carraville + things you said when you thought i was asleep

He’s two months into the job when Ed suggests that they go for a pint. This would ordinarily be fine, except the lousy fuck chooses to tell him only _after_ he says yes that he’s invited Neville too.

“Oh,” Jamie says, scrunching up his face. “I, uh. Just remembered. I have to go for a wedding - “ 

Ed laughs and tells him they’ll all be outside at ten thirty.

So it’s ten thirty that Jamie shows up, fingers stuffed in his coat pockets, grumpier than most things that existed in the world. Neville’s already there - Jamie thinks vindictively that he’s probably already been there for twenty minutes, congratulating himself on his superior time-keeping abilities - and he gives him a nod. Jamie returns it without the friendliness. 

They walk to the pub in relative silence, although Neville does venture a ‘Jamie’s grumpy today’ and Jamie does venture a ‘fuck off, Neville’. Ed purposely walks in between them and tries to pretend that everything is as nice as the weather.

It’s getting late, and the place is so full of bawdy, boisterous men in ties that no one gives them a second glance. Ed gets the drinks, and Jamie finds a table. They sit down opposite and wait for alcohol, and it wouldn’t have been so bad if Neville wasn’t staring intently at him.

“What?” Jamie growls after a while, shifting uncomfortably.

“Nothing,” Neville says, although he’s obviously lying (Jamie doesn’t ask himself how he knows, or why he cares).

The clock ticks past eleven. Ed still hasn’t reappeared, probably besieged at the bar by some poor sod desperate to talk about his impending divorce. Neville hasn’t said a word since, and Jamie drums his fingers on the table. 

“What,” he says again, this time not a question.

Neville blinks slowly, his chocolate brown eyes ( _god,_ thinks Jamie, _it’s like I’m in a fucking movie_ ) questioning. “Why do you hate me so much, Jamie?” 

Jamie is taken aback. “I don’t hate you,” he says abruptly, wishing that Ed had brought the drinks before he buggered off so that he’d have something else to stare at. 

“You do hate me,” Neville insists, propping up his head on one hand. “You hardly talk to me outside of work, you _still_ call me by my last name even though that was so 2010, you’re always staring angrily at me for some weird reason, and you purposely avoid me to the point that this is the first time I think we’ve been alone together. Ergo, you hate me.” 

His tone is more of interest than of protest. Jamie finds this disconcerting and wishes Ed would hurry the fuck up.

“I just want to know why. Is it because of United?” 

“No,” Jamie says. “No, it’s something else.” 

Neville brightens. “So you _do_ hate me,” he cackles, which is a strange reaction under any circumstance. He’s got that stupid look on his face where he gets all excited and animated and Jamie wishes that he’d never seen it. “Come on. Is it because I’m better at your job than you?” 

Jamie scowls. “No, it’s not, and you aren’t.”

Neville grins smugly. “Am too.”

Jamie wishes that he’d never taken this fucking job, and that Neville could’ve just continued to be a one dimensional Manc to throw darts at, because life would have been so much fucking easier.

“You really want to know why I call you Neville?” he mutters. Neville gives him a perky little nod. 

“Because I don’t want us to be friends.” 

Neville deflates a little. “Why not?” he pouts. Jamie wants to punch him.

“Because - “ 

He doesn’t know, later, if he would have explained, that saying his first name meant admitting the truth he didn’t want to acknowledge. That being friends would make it even tougher, and for the first time in his life, Jamie Carragher wants to take the easy way out.

He’s saved from that as Ed comes back with the drinks, slapping them down on the table with the air of a man who had been through hell to get these. “You wouldn’t be- _lieve_ the sorts they get in here,” he groans, taking a long swig from his glass and prompting them to do the same. “I must’ve spent fifteen minutes in the corner with a piss-drunk bloke who wouldn’t stop complaining about sodding _taxes_.” 

Jamie drinks in silence and stops after the third pint, listening to Ed and Neville discussing the merits of the latest Toyota and watching the way Neville punctuates his points with his fingers, these short, sharp movements that leave Jamie helpless with their utter normalcy. 

It’s close to one when Neville finally passes out, his head slamming into the table and giving Ed a jolt. “Oh, dear,” he says, peering at Neville’s pale face. “That’s not good. Maybe we should get him a cab.”

“Neville doesn’t like cabs,” Jamie says absently. 

“How would you know?” Ed snorts. “You hate him.” 

“Just guessing. He’s too much of a snob for it.” Jamie pulls a face to cover it up and doesn’t say what else he knows (his favourite movie is _Rocky_ , he buys Starbursts by the box, he likes cheese and onion crisps, his favourite colour is - )

Ed looks at him apologetically. 

“Listen, Jamie. Hate to do this to you, but would you mind if you dropped Gaz off? He’s closer to your side of London and Charlotte’s going to kill me if I’m any later.” 

Jamie nods, not sure if he can bring himself to speak. Ed grins.

“Ta, mate, you’re a real pal. At least he’ll be conked out and you won’t have to fight him all the way back.” 

“Yeah,” Jamie forces a laugh. His throat is dry.

They bundle him into Jamie’s car together then Ed tips his fingers in a salute and trots off. Jamie drives in silence, not turning the radio on and not looking at the drooping figure who hangs over the seatbelt, snoring gently.

“I, uh.” 

His car coasts gently to a stop in front of Neville’s house. The words are out of Jamie’s mouth before he notices he’s said them, and he flushes.

“I avoid you because I know if I came close I’d just make a sodding fool of myself, and you can’t ruin anything that doesn’t exist in the first place.” 

He’s sitting there, fingers still on the wheel, eyes still on the road, talking to a drunk guy stone-cold asleep. _In a fucking movie._

“I stare at you because I love the way you flick your pen when you get angry. I don’t talk to you because I love the way you say my name more than I should. I hate you because I wasn’t supposed to care about you so fucking much.”

He breathes. Neville stirs, mumbles what he thinks is _Carragher_ under his breath, and Jamie swallows. 

“We’re home, Neville,” he says quietly, leaning over to unbuckle the seatbelt and lingering longer than he needs to. Neville moans again, and Jamie’s heart catches in his throat. 

“Gary,” he whispers. His voice is trembling as he reaches a hand towards his cheek. “Gary, we’re home.” 


	2. carraville + gritted teeth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> carraville + things you said through your teeth

A slow smile spreads across Jamie’s face. “Come again?” 

Gary grits his teeth so hard he swears he can feel the enamel flaking off. “Would you. Like to. Get a. Pint.” 

Jamie’s smile only gets wider and he twiddles his thumbs, leaning back in his chair. Gary sincerely hopes he falls off. “And why should I, when we ostensibly dislike each other?” 

“You know very well why.” Gary’s erstwhile fantasies have become significantly less _An Affair To Remember_ and significantly more _Saw_. “For fuck’s sake, Carragher, don’t make me say it out loud.” 

The one thing that Jamie Carragher thrives on more than United losing is evidently Gary Neville’s discomfort. He looks so smug that Gary wouldn’t be surprised if he suddenly turned French. “Well, you see, Gary,” he purrs (a tone of voice Gary would dearly like to never hear again), “there’s this Manc who keeps telling me that us Scousers are incredibly dumb. As someone who has a brain the size of a bean, it’d be incredibly helpful if you could tell me exactly why you’d like me to go for a pint with you.” 

Gary mentally shifts Carragher’s Smirk up a rank on the _Things To Slap_ list, promoting him over Wenger whenever he made a vague excuse (which was often enough). “You fucking knob,” he mutters, taking a step forward, hands clenched into fists that might swing at Jamie’s pearly whites of their own accord. 

Jamie raises an eyebrow. “You want to go for a pint with me because I’m a fucking knob?” 

“No, I - “ Gary wrings his hands helplessly. “I want to go for a pint with you because I like you, all right?” He winces. “There. I said it. I like you. A lot. And not in the let’s be friends way. In the bang you against a wall way.” 

Jamie’s mouth is hanging open slightly. Gary smells an opportunity and, before his brain can yell WHAT THE FUCK at him, he takes it.

“Yeah, Carragher,” he growls, though the anger has vanished, only to be replaced by the most awkward seduction technique since Chandler Bing. He takes another step forward and Jamie wheels his chair back nervously, smirk gone. “I’d have you on this desk, right here, right now. I’d grab you by the collar and pin you down and stick my tongue down your throat.” 

Jamie has run out of room to wheel back. If the scene was a bootleg Chinese DVD there would be subtitles reading [Gary’s smirk intensifies]. 

“I’d yank off your tie and undo your buttons, one by one, with my hands just brushing the surface of your skin until you’re begging for mercy and we haven’t even begun yet. All the way down to your belt.” Gary puts his hands on the chair’s armrests and leans in, his face inches away from Jamie’s. Jamie is blinking so much Gary isn’t sure whether he should call an ambulance. 

“I want you, you Scouse bastard,” he breathes, allowing his leg to touch Jamie’s and feeling him shiver involuntarily. “And that. Is why I want to go for a pint with you. So that we can both get sloshed and have the best sex of our lives.” 

Jamie swallows. The tension in the air crackles. Gary tries to stay focused on the moment and not think of pork crackling. 

“Jesus,” a mortified Scouse accent breaks the silence, but it’s tinny and faraway and definitely not from in the room. Jamie and Gary look up at each other slowly, blood draining from their faces. 

“Is that - “ Gary squeaks, recoiling in horror. 

“Next time you butt-dial me, Carra, you dirty fuck,” Gerrard yells, “I’m not picking up the fucking phone.”


	3. beville + words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beville + things you said after it was over

_i. How’s the weather?_

Sunny, he says, and laughs. Just like my personality.

Must make a nice change from Manchester, you say. It’s gloomy outside again, grey clouds gathering in bunches over the familiar steel. He falls silent. You try not to listen to him breathe.

You know, he says presently, I think I prefer the rain. 

 

_ii. Good game._

Thanks. You can feel him grinning. I reckon I’m getting better than you are.

Don’t be cocky, Beckham. You might be famous and handsome and talented and rich, but can you land a place in the starting lineup of the Telegraph’s Most Hated Footballers XI? 

You dig your fingers into your palm, wondering when you started having to force it. He doesn’t seem to notice.

No one asks you to piss the Scousers off. 

They do, you snort. 

Eh, Neville.

Yeah? 

He pauses a moment, then asks, you really think I’m handsome? 

You put down the phone.

 

_iii. Happy birthday._

Thanks. Thought you’d forgot. 

Nah. You grin. How could I forget? 

You, you think and don’t add. How could I forget you.

 

_iv. what time is it over there?_

Seven, he yawns. In the bloody morning. 

I can call back.

It’s fine. I was awake anyway.

Liar.

He laughs. Okay, okay, I was sleeping like a baby. The last time I was up this early was when I roomed with you. 

You remember the thin sheets and how once it was so cold you slept back-to-back and said nothing about it later.

Anyway. What did you need? 

You rattle off some excuse about real estate in California and booking a Gordon Ramsay restaurant, when really you just needed to hear his voice, the high pitch, the edges, the way he drops his Ts.

 

_v. see you tomorrow._

You’re looking at me right now, he teases. It’s strange having him there, hair cut shorter and perfectly coiffed, hands so near you could reach out and hold them. You don’t, of course. You’re scared he might break.

On the pitch, Becks.

Obviously, you twat.

You were out for the first leg, though you sat on the bench and didn’t look at Bonera playing right back. The gaffer called you up this morning and asked whether you could take it. You said, I can still run, boss, even though you both knew that wasn’t what he meant.

Do you think it’s going to be weird? 

Nah. His hand goes up, almost as if it’s going towards your face, then drops down to pat you gently on the shoulder. There’s nothing weird about coming home. 

_vi. Thank you._

You’re welcome. He shrugs. It’s not like they need me, anyway. 

You ignore the implication of that (I need you) and say, yeah, but it’s polite to say thank you. 

He rolls his eyes and holds up the red shirt, running his fingers over the stitches of the crest. It must have been nice, one club man. Never having to leave. Never having to wonder, once it’s gone, whether you still love it as much as you did.

Having to wonder if it still loves you.

You wouldn’t know, he says, but you do.

 

_vii. Dinner?_

You don’t know why he’s the first person you text. Your tie is black and your tongue is numb from journalists’ questions _._ You press send and leave your phone on the table. You aren’t even sure if he’ll reply. You tell yourself he’s got better things to worry about, that he’s got trips to plan and shoots to model and so many things beyond your world.

Your phone is ringing.

 

 

 

 

 

_things you (both) don’t say_

_i. I miss you._

Me, too.


	4. beville + hospitals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beville + 21. things you said when we were on top of the world ([Horizon!AU](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5696596) \+ [5 cities reference](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4280100/chapters/10034354))

The first thing you remember is after the youth cup final, when you had one hand on the silver trophy and the other hand in the air, screaming for all you were worth. His arm was around your neck and his breath was warm in your ear; everything about him was warm. He said, “this is only the beginning.”

*

And this is the end.

You’re in a bed, white and clean, you’re not sure how you got here in the first place. Everything is cold. There are a few flesh-coloured blobs around you, bobbing in time with some invisible choir, you can’t really make them out. “Dad,” one of them says, reaching out touch your shoulder.

“Brooklyn?” 

He swims into focus, surprise and relief colouring his face. “Yeah.” His grip is firm and reassuring. “You remembered, Dad.”

“I remembered?”

Brooklyn looks down at the beeping machine next to you. “Ever since - well - the doctors said you’re going back to the beginning. Like you’re looking for something. And the only name you’ve said is - “

“Gary?” 

*

You don’t remember the first time he kissed you, because he must’ve done it to everyone just for scoring a goal in the United shirt (and, to tell the truth, you loved him all the more for it). You do remember the first time you kissed him, because you could have conquered the world right then and there. Christmas, ‘98. You were picking up after the Boro defeat. Scholesy had gotten so drunk he was talking a mile a minute and everyone had stopped to watch him, knowing they’d never see this again. He took your arm and brought you outside.

“Gaz, you’re drunk,” you said, grinning like a cat.

“So’r you,” he retorted, slurring his words.

Without knowing why, you put your hand on his back and pulled him in, pressing your lips to his, tasting the innocence of best-friends-nothing-more dissolve into the guilt of love. He was so young. You both were.

When you finally broke away he buried his face in your neck and mumbled, “I thought it’d feel like that.” You felt like you could fly.

*

You score dozens of goals after you leave. None of them really matter.

*

There was one night, you think, when it was red in Barcelona. Ole had scored and the whole stadium had risen up, this roar that wouldn’t stop, would never stop. You raced from the corner into the pile. Everyone was screaming - Phil had come in, Butty with his lion’s heart - but he wasn’t there. He was still on the halfway line, his legs gone from beneath him, his shirt the colour of his heart.

So you went to him, floating on air, leaning down and touching your forehead to his. You will always remember that look in his eyes, glassy and shining, as if he was living a fairy tale (which was true, if you were honest). He met your gaze and began to smile. You’d never seen anything so pure. “I never want this to end,” he told you like he was telling a secret.

“Neither do I,” you said, holding him close, keeping him warm.

*

But it does end. 

It ends with, of all things, a butterfly sticker. You raise your hand to your forehead without knowing, looking for a scar that no longer exists. You wonder where the sticker is now, whether someone found it and kept it and showed it to friends, or whether it just disappeared, like everything else.

Brooklyn’s on the phone with someone. Everything is cold, and white. Yes. That was what you traded red for. Funny it should end like this. You cough a little and Brooklyn reaches out a hand to take yours, off the phone now. For some reason he is smiling.

*

When the obituaries come out they will say that 1998 was the worst year of your life. It wasn’t, not really. He’d been there, and Sir Alex, and United, like a security blanket wrapped around your shoulders. No one had been in Spain.

(That isn’t strictly true. Iker had been. But it’s not his name you remember.)

You were cold and alone, this city of M-, except it was the wrong M and everything was wrong and you waited every day for the phone call that never came.

Then -

 

All he said over that crackly phone line was “Becks”, but it was enough. Neither of you said anything else. Neither of you had to. You crossed the room and looked out of the window. It was glittering in the streets.

*

Everything is cold, cold. You know you’ve said that before, you can’t help but say it again. What was it about old people and repeating things? You want so desperately to get out of this bed, and if you must repeat something you wish you could repeat those bright summer days when your legs worked and your hair was the colour of sunshine.

You look down at your fingers, shaking like they don’t know how to stop. You want to remember what running was like.

“Dad,” Brooklyn says, concerned. He sounds like he’s talking to you from a dream. “Dad, hang in there. He’s coming.” 

The lights in the room begin to fade. He’s coming. He’s coming. Yes. Do you see, Gary? - we always come back.

*

That was what he told you, the last time. The last thing you remember.

It was a cafe somewhere in Salford. You wonder if it still exists, a quaint little number with beige walls and hot pies. You can’t remember what you had, though he probably had a pasty and ate half of what you ordered. It must’ve been a week after your retirement, when the press was in a frenzy and you didn’t know where to go, except one place. 

He picked you up from the airport and laughed at your scarf and sunglasses, as if that would help. Then he drove you to that cafe, and you had lunch, and if people saw you they meandered away respectfully. You caught him looking and grinned. “What?” 

“Nothing,” he grinned back easily, burying his face in his food. “Just knew you’d always come back.” 

He went on eating like he’d said nothing important. And you didn’t know why then, and you still don’t know why, but that hit you in the chest like a train. The Manchester sun filtered through the window and lit him up, specks of dust floating around. You don’t remember what you had because you’d stopped eating then and just watched him, attacking the pasty like a fifteen-year-old, believing in you like a fifteen-year-old, somehow knowing better than you where your heart was. Always come back, and you did.

*

And he does.

You recognise him the minute he walks in, even though his hair is grey and his forehead crease has become obscured by many more. The burning in his eyes is still there, a flame that can never be put out, and you think, oh. This is what I don’t want to forget.

“Becks,” he says, the same way he said it years ago. 

Everyone else trickles through the door like a waterfall. You don’t notice them leaving until it’s just the two of you, him standing, you trapped in your cold-white-rigid bed.

“I didn’t think it’d end,” you say. Your voice sounds very far away, even to you. He smiles at you kindly and takes your hand. It is so natural and familiar that you shudder. 

“It’s not going to end, Becks.” His voice is firm as a crutch that you lean on. “The beginning, remember?” 

Yes. Yes. You squeeze his hand and look into his eyes, soft as sunsets. “You came back,” you say, dropping your head into your pillow. 

“I never left,” he murmurs, ringing another distant bell in your memory, of stadiums and quiet breezes.

Your eyelids flutter. The lights are fading, everything cold-white-rigid growing dimmer and dimmer until it’s just a speck on the horizon. The beep from your monitor echoes in your head like a tolling bell. You stopped flying so long ago you don’t know how to start. And there’s nothing left when you stop flying. Nothing left. Only him, red, and warm.


	5. scheville 2.0 + shy kisses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Shy Kiss for Phil/anyone!

“Hey, Scholesy.”

Paul turns around and gives you a look that says please don’t interrupt me when Only Fools and Horses is on. 

“Yeah?” 

“’ve you ever kissed anyone?” 

He’s fifteen and probably a lot more worldly than you, and you reason that it’s not a question you could ask Gary anyway, because he’d either send you out of his room or laugh awkwardly and avoid talking about Becks for the next five minutes. 

Not that asking Paul was necessarily a much better idea. You pale at the expression on his face, which could either mean that he wants to throw up (preferable) or wants to poke your eyes out with the remote he’s holding (not so preferable). 

“…Yeah,” he grunts after fifteen very tense seconds, during which you vaguely fear for your life.

Del Boy is talking so you figure you had better not interrupt now or you’ll really land in the hallway on your arse, so you roll over on the bed and stare at the ceiling, wondering why you’d asked in the first place, what that meant.

*

“Hey, Scholesy.” 

Paul’s brows are knit with concentration as he lines up a shot at Butty, who’s stood sixty yards away with his pants down and a bubble of obliviousness around him. 

“Yeah?” 

“What’s kissing someone like?” 

He skews the ball and it ends up ten yards right of where he’d wanted it. Butty looks around as the ball goes past him then turns back to Paul and gives him the most annoying thumbs up he can muster (and, given that it’s Butty, that is very annoying indeed). Paul scowls. 

“The fuck, Phil?”

You shrug. “I dunno. I’ve never done it, is all.” 

“I’m your mate, not your agony fucking aunt,” he grumbles, stalking over to the side of the pitch and sitting in the grass, his knees drawn up to his chest. Tentatively you sit next to him, leaning back on your hands, your feet crossing each other. 

“It’s wet,” he says after a beat. You look at him and he looks at you and then he turns away, a hint of a smile on his face. “Bit of a mess, really.” 

“Doesn’t sound very worth it,” you scrunch up your nose. 

He looks at you again and shrugs. 

“Could be nice with the right person,” he says, and stands up.

 

-

 

“Hey, Scholesy.” 

Paul barely glances your way, as if Bruce Willis’s survival depends entirely on him keeping his eyes on the movie screen. 

“Yeah?” 

“I’ve been thinking.” 

“That’s a big step forward.” 

You resist the urge to roll your eyes and/or hit him on the shoulder. Your mouth is terribly dry, which is strange, because you thought he’d said it was the other way around. You put your arm over his seat, which is easy because he’s so fucking small, and this time he turns to look at you properly.

“What?” 

You don’t reply, and then neither does he. The lads would be laughing so hard at you now if they were here, you leaning forward slowly, awkwardly, just glad that it’s so dark in the room that Paul probably can’t make out the redness on your cheeks. 

An inch away you stop, unsure, and it’s him who pushes forward, ever so gently pressing his lips to yours. You can feel him trembling slightly. Neither of you do anything else - not deepen it, not move, not even breathe - just sit there, quiet, eyes closed, the muted hum of machine guns in the background.

At last he tilts away and avoids your gaze, looking back at the screen. Even in the dark you can see him grinning a little. Hesitantly you drop your hand down to his and brush his fingers. He turns his palm upwards and takes your hand in his, still not looking at you. You begin to smile.

 

 


	6. carraville + sly kisses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> carraville + A Hope We Don’t Get Caught Kiss

There are a lot of things Jamie hates about Gary. The most obvious would be the unfortunate fact that he was born on the wrong side of the M62, which means that sometimes him talking in his sleep still makes Jamie wake up looking for a fight. There is the ridiculous number of nondescript black t-shirts that he owns, like he’s looking to equip his own badly dressed army one day. And then there is his complete and utter inability to step out of Professional Mode and just give him a proper snog when he’s asking for one. 

“We’ll get caught,” Gary says primly as Jamie tugs at his sleeve with a forlornness known only to abandoned dogs and 40-year-olds in relationships that had reached the point of not-now-dear. “Besides, we’re working.”

“Not yet,” Jamie smirks, which is true, since they’d only just arrived and the crew are busy setting up everything. Gary frowns.

“Besides, this is Anfield. I’m not going to make out with you in fucking Anfield.” 

Jamie’s so pleased that Gary Humped the Scousers Neville has just said the words ‘this is Anfield’ that he almost doesn’t catch the second part. 

“What’s wrong with making out at Anfield? People did it all the time.” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. “I’ll show you where Stevie and Xabi used to do it.” 

Gary shudders. “Please never do that.” 

“Don’t be such a tightarse.” 

To his credit, Gary resists the inevitable ‘I thought you liked that’. Instead he gives Jamie that look of his that makes him feel like a small boy getting told off by his teacher. “I’m not being a prude, James, but Giggsy’s here and we play in a few hours and we’re. Working.” 

“We. Aren’t.” Jamie nods at everyone setting up frantically, the camera boys running around like headless chickens, David not even here yet. Gary sniffs, like the view from the moral high ground is so much better.

“We’’ll soon be.” 

“Shut up and come on, will you?”

 One of the reasons why Jamie’s stayed in shape after retirement is so that he can drag the lump of pasties that is Gary around, and this is precisely what he proceeds to do, seizing Gary’s hand and yanking him past a very bewildered Giggs as he walks in. “Sorry, Ryan,” he calls blithely over his shoulder, ignoring Gary’s fervent threats to kill him. “Important meeting. Back in a sec.” 

“That’s a shit excuse,” Gary snorts, although he slowly stops fighting and lets Jamie drag him around wherever he’s intent on going. It takes a surprising amount of effort to fight someone five cm taller than you - not, Jamie smirks, that he’d ever have to find out. He pulls Gary along the familiar corridors, feeling the cool metal of the stairwell under his fingers. Gary’s face when he sees the sign is a delight.

“Fuck off, Carragher.”

“I will not,” Jamie replies tartly, pulling him onto the halfway line of fucking Anfield, where about a million cameras are, incidentally, aimed straight at them. This is definitely not Gary’s idea of ‘we’re working’, and definitely more of his idea of ‘we’ll get caught’.

“You’re out of your fucking mind,” he says in disbelief, looking at the empty stadium around them. “I’m not going to be drawn into th - “ 

Exactly what Gary’s not going to be drawn into Jamie never really finds out, because he grabs Gary’s tie and pulls him in, his mouth hot and hungry. Gary melts in his arms, all excuses gone as he kisses back hard, his fingers digging into Jamie’s shoulders. 

“Well.” Gary’s voice is ragged when they break, soft in the stillness. “So I’ve made out with a Scouser in fucking Anfield. And that’s been caught on fucking camera. I hope you’re satisfied.”

“No,” Jamie says, the smuggest of smug grins on his face. Gary looks like he’s about to hit him.

“No?” 

“No, it’s not been caught on fucking camera.” Jamie jabs a thumb at the commentary box, where everyone’s so busy that no one’s looking down at them anyway. “Only asked Andy for a little favour, didn’t I? Told you they’d take some time to set up.”

A dawn of realisation spreads over Gary’s face. “You sly bastard,” he says, the smile growing as he leans back in. 

-

Later they play handsie on national television, their fingers barely skirting around each other and staying miraculously put despite the gesticulating nature of the job. It’s totally unprofessional, but suddenly Gary doesn’t quite seem to mind after all.


	7. carraville + sleeping in

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> carraville + accidentally sleeping in

A couple of years ago, Scholesy had decided to change the alarm ringtone on Gary’s phone to a ridiculous youtube video he’d found - something about a chicken or a duck screeching a passable version of Take On Me. Given the nature of being who he was, he’d never had any particular use for it, having always woken up punctually during what normal people liked to the call why the _fuck_ would anyone be awake hour.

Unfortunately, he hadn’t counted on two things - firstly, meeting a Scouser to whom alcohol was like water, and secondly, being dragged out to drinks at two in the sodding morning with said Scouser. (Scholesy later finds it very amusing that Gary’s brain immediately deflects blame from himself and towards the nearest available Liverpudlian.) 

The very first thought that enters Gary’s head as he wakes up is that he can now verify that the ringtone is a duck. His second thought is that it isn’t actually a terribly awful rendition. His final thought is that he is going to kill Jamie.

“Wake up, you absolute tit,” he yell-whispers into the ear of the prone figure besides him. As he does this he’s also trying to jump out of bed, check the clock, pull on some pants, and look for his socks - an unfortunate that sees him trip over the sheets and fall onto the ground in a thump without having actually achieved anything.

Jamie cranks his eyes open and blinks at him ponderously. “Christ, Gaz, was I really that bad?” he yawns, pulling the sheets back from where Gary’s gotten hopelessly enmeshed. “In that much of a hurry to leave and never call?” 

“It’s not that, you twat,” Gary hisses, running over to his row of suit jackets, promptly tripping over his undone belt, and falling back into a miserable heap. “It’s past eleven and Palace’s got the early kickoff today.” 

Jamie bolts up straight and bangs his head against the headboard (not in the fun way, either). “Fucking hell,” he swears, scrambling towards the watch on the stand and checking the time. “You sure it’s not three?”

“It’s twelve, and I remember because I remember yelling in your face that we couldn’t go out for drinks because it was _at fucking twelve.”_

 _“_ Don’t you try to pin this on me,” Jamie yells back, from where he’s rooting around in the laundry to find just one white shirt that doesn’t look like he hasn’t washed it since last week’s game. (Despite his state of panic Gary still gives him a disapproving glance. There’s always time to judge Jamie’s propensity - or lack thereof - for domestic chores, even though his brother’s exploits with Nespresso machines didn’t exactly cover the Neville family in glory.) 

Gary bundles up a clean shirt and throws it at Jamie’s head. It catches him straight in the face and he staggers back, swearing. “That’s _exactly_ what I’m going to do,” Gary scowls, having found most of the things that he needed to come to resemble a functioning human. “This is why I’m never going to listen to you again.” 

Jamie huffs like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. The effect is decidedly less intimidating when he’s all suited up as opposed to where he’s standing with his socks sliding down his legs and his shirt tucked into his heart-covered boxers. “You were the one who came out with me, you bastard,” he snarls, chucking Gary’s tie over towards him. It being the wrong sport, Gary misses and falls backwards over his trouser leg, which he only realises isn’t his because it’s far too long. And that was the number one reason why you should never get into a relationship with a height difference.

“I knew I shouldn’t have,” he mutters, half strangling himself to death having suddenly forgotten the basics of tying a knot. Jamie’s giving him the biggest sideeye of his life from the other side of the room.

“Stop complaining, you utter wank. You didn’t have to, did you?” 

“Well, yeah, but - “ 

“So why’d you go, then?” 

“I don’t know!” Gary yells, tugging with much exasperation at the tie that’s somehow turned into a practice knot for boy scouts. “Maybe because on some weird-arsed subconscious level I rated spending time with you higher than sodding Palace!” 

Jamie stops what he’s doing (trying to yank Gary’s trousers off to reclaim them in the name of Liverpool, then probably burn them) and looks up at Gary in surprise. 

“Really?” 

“Yeah,” Gary says, suddenly self-conscious, leaving the tie in a ring around his neck as he stares at Jamie. 

Jamie looks at the clock. It’s ticking close to eleven forty five and there’re about three hundred missed calls on each of their phones, without exaggeration. He looks back down at himself (jacket on one arm, shirt unbuttoned, trousers on the wrong bloke), and then at Gary (yellow socks that don’t belong anywhere except in Ronald McDonald’s closet, tie back to front, shoes on the wrong feet), and then at the bed (cosy).

“Eh,” he says, tossing his watch over his shoulder. “Football’s overrated, anyway, isn’t it?”


	8. mcgrowler + reunions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A reunion kiss for McGrowler!

Steve gets off the plane and it’s already raining. Fucking Manchester.

He gets the train back because Robbie refused to pick him up, the twat. Something about it being too far a drive to be worth it for a beanstalk. The club had offered, of course, but it isn’t the same laughing at grumpy Robbie and laughing at grumpy Random Bloke. The ear size is immediately glaring.

Robbie isn’t at the apartment either, which is annoying, because he’d expressly said he’d be there. Steve frowns as he drops his things, and his eyes land on the carefully-curated DVD collection in the corner of the living room. Sod it, he thinks. He didn’t come to pick him up and it’s been eleven years. Robbie should really know better than to leave him alone with his shit.

So Robbie comes home laden with Tesco bags, fumbles his key in the lock, and finds Steve Fucking McManaman sitting in the middle of his fucking room, trying to slip the Miami Vice DVD into the Wallace and Gromit case.

“What the f - “

Steve doesn’t apologise. He doesn’t even say hello. He holds up a DVD, raises a judgmental eyebrow, and asks, “You have _Sixteen Candles_?”

Robbie scrunches his face up. “You bought me that.”

Steve thinks for a moment. “Oh. Yeah.” He grins at Robbie sheepishly. “Bit of a joke, to be honest. Didnt’ think you’d keep it.” 

“I keep everything, you fuck,” Robbie says, grins, leaving the Tesco bags on the floor and crossing over to Steve, who ambles up to him all easy, his arms angled to give him a hug, his smile wide and dopey like the first time they’d met those years ago.

“S’not been the same without you,” Robbie mumbles into Steve’s skinny shoulder and the absurdly large shirt he’s wearing.

“’Course not.” Steve laughs. “I’ve been in fucking Spain for one, haven’t I?”

But he knows what Robbie means, and Robbie knows what he means. He pulls back from the hug ever so slightly, just to look at Steve’s face. It’s all still there, a little more sunburnt, a couple new wrinkles, but the fondness in the blue eyes is exactly the same.

He tiptoes and turns his face up to meet Steve’s, who puts a hand under his chin to help. Their lips meet and it’s warm and soft, a heady rush of memories that burst into Robbie’s head - of laughing in the locker room and quiet hugs in the carpark and the sheer joy of just being on the pitch together, _working_. But more than that, the tingle in his fingertips, the heat of Steve’s breath - the knowledge that all these things are about to come again.

Steve pulls away and cups Robbie’s face in his hands, leaning forward to touch their foreheads together. “Still fucking small, Growler,” he smiles fondly.

“Still fucking skinny, Macca.” Robbie’s grinning too.

“Doing anything for the rest of the afternoon?” Steve arcs his eyebrows suggestively. 

Robbie’s hands come to rest on the small of Steve’s back. “Uh huh,” he murmurs. “And I can think of a way for you to help.” 

“Yeah?” Steve smirks.

“Yeah.” Robbie slaps his chest with _Sixteen Candles_. “It’s going to take all afternoon to put them the fuck back.”


	9. scheville + reactions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Could you write Scholesy reaction to Gary's kiss?

There’s blindsided, and then there’s _blindsided_ , and then there’s Gary Neville grabbing you and kissing you on the lips with his hands on your face in front of national fucking television during the Manchester fucking derby. Scholesy manages to shove him off after less than a second, but he’s painfully aware that it’s been caught on pretty much every camera in the world, and he’s even more painfully aware that Ryan was on the pitch watching, which is never good if you don’t want an incident to be brought up in the dressing room after.

“So when’s the wedding date?” Ryan teases as they’re walking back to the dressing room, and Scholesy gives him a glare that could have melted glass. 

“It’s Gaz. He kisses everyone.” 

“Not like that, he doesn’t.” Ryan’s smile reeks of so much superiority that Scholesy has a sudden, burning desire to stamp his studded boots into Ryan’s feet. And blame it on a pigeon or something.

It gets worse when all the other lads come filing in, cheeky grins and nudges and knowing looks. “I will kill anyone who brings it up,” Scholesy says very succinctly, and because it’s Scholesy everyone knows it’s not an idle threat, but there are ways of making fun of someone without having to say anything. Wayne grabs Pat’s face and makes smoochy noises. Anderson is puckering up at him.

Scholesy wants to die. Or stab them all. He hasn’t figured out which is more appealing yet.

He’s just glad that Gary’s captain, because that means he’ll spend the next two hours in Sir Alex’s office bugging him about everything, and that means by the time Sir Alex chases him out most of the lads will be in the showers or gone. What he doesn’t count on is Gaz bursting into the room panting, looking like a spooked horse. “What?” he asks Ryan hurriedly. “Who got injured?” 

“No one.” Ryan grins at him. Gary’s eyes fall onto Scholesy, then the rest of the room, and then he swallows. Scholesy still hasn’t decided, but he does know that if he was going down the second route, Ryan would be the first one to go.

“I got overexcited,” Gary concludes sheepishly. Scholesy raises an eyebrow at him.

“Overexcited.” 

“Yeah.” Gary steps forward, almost like he’s going to sling an arm around Scholesy like he always does after games, but then thinks better of the context and the painfully awkward silence in the room. “Look, mate, you know how I get.” 

“That’s what I told Giggsy.” Scholesy frowns. “But.” 

“’ve you ever kissed anyone else on the lips, Gaz?” Wayne pipes up. If Scholesy had a gun right there and then he’d be sentenced to life imprisonment. 

Gary looks down at his feet and mutters a very small “no”. Scholesy wishes that, for once in his life, the man would just learn how to tell a damn lie.

“Clear it up for these lot, will you?” he growls, folding his arms over his chest and giving Gary a look that plainly communicates all fifty one ways in which he is capable of killing someone. “You didn’t mean to, I didn’t like it, and we’re never going to do it again.” 

“I didn’t mean to, you didn’t like it, and we’re never going to do it again,” Gary repeats seriously. Thus satisfied, Scholesy looks at everyone twice over to confirm the public statement, and then stalks off to the showers in an attempt to drown himself. At the very least he’s going to try damn hard to wash the memory of Gary’s lips on his away, even though it keeps popping into his head for some godforsaken reason.

For obvious reasons he carpools back with Giggsy instead of Gary, although halfway through the ride and multiple rewrites of the last line of _Princess Bride_ later he can’t really remember what those reasons are. Giggsy blows a kiss at him as he gets out and he gives him a two-fingered salute that does not mean Victory.

He picks his way through dinner, still frowning like the press are coming and he can’t find a place to hide. In the end he abandons his steak and reaches for his phone instead. 

“Hey,” he says when Gary picks up the phone. And then he’s quiet for an uncomfortably long period of time, which is a terrible follow up to ‘hey’.

“Er. Scholesy.” Gaz sounds like a cross between being concerned and wanting to pee in his pants. “You all right?” 

“What was that today?” 

Gary swallows. “It was a mistake, I told you.” 

“Well. Yeah.” Scholesy’s gripping his phone so tight he thinks it might explode in his hands, which would probably make Sir Alex awfully angry. “I’m not so sure.” 

“What are you on about?” 

“I mean, um.” Scholesy looks up at the ceiling and prays that he’s got enough alcohol in the house to not remember this conversation tomorrow. “You’re a good kisser.”

“Yeah?” he can hear Gary’s slow smirk even through the phone.

“Yeah.”

They’re quiet for a couple seconds, and then Gary says, “to tell you the truth, I kinda meant to.” 

Scholesy feels a knot in his stomach loosen a little. “I kinda liked it.” 

“When you said ‘we’re never going to do it again’, did you mean tomorrow?”

“Maybe.” 

“Cool.” 

Scholesy bites his lip and smiles. “Gaz? One thing.” 

“Anything.” 

“Next time you see cameras labelled national and international distribution, hold the fuck up, will you?”

“No guarantee.” 

Scholesy hangs up and attacks his steak with a renewed vigour. If he was a cartoon there’d probably be grumpy earts circling his head, and he finds he's surprisingly okay with it.


	10. carraville + sekrits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> carraville + ridiculous false rumours (based on [this post](http://carraville.tumblr.com/post/154437825947/minssery-ask-bot-whats-the-most-ridiculous))

It’s the morning of the Merseyside derby and David has got a massive headache. He’s gulping down the coffee in bucketloads when Gary walks in, far too alert for seven in the morning. Silently David offers him a drop of the precious liquid, but Gary shakes his head.

“Quite all right,” he says, cheerfully. “I had some before leaving home. My husband makes great coffee.”

David rolls his eyes. “Of course.” He’s only been at this job a couple of months, but already he’s quite aware of Gary Neville and his ridiculously perfect husband who can do no wrong. You’d think that it wouldn’t be possible for someone to wax that lyrical about someone whose name David hadn’t even caught yet, but you’d be wrong.

“I mean,” Gary continues, totally oblivious to common sense. “He’s a great cook and all, but his coffee is just absolutely sublime, y’know?”

“All right, Gaz,” David says, facepalming as he stands up. “You keep being lovey dovey there. I’m going to find Jamie.”

“But – ”

David ignores the look of confusion on Gary’s face and closes the door behind him. It isn’t too hard to find Jamie – he’s usually either in his room or yelling at people in the Soccer AM lounge – and it’s in the former that Jamie’s laying out his suit for later.

“Hey, Carra,” David greets him. “Nice tie. Is that new?”

From the fond, dreamy look that appears on Jamie’s face, David knows immediately that he’s made a huge mistake. “Isn’t it great?” Jamie says happily, passing it to David to have a look. “The fella got it for me for Christmas. He’s got impeccable taste.”

“Oh, lord,” David groans, flopping onto Jamie’s sofa and burying his face in his hands. “Can’t you, or Gary for that matter, just shut up about your other halves for, like, five minutes? It’s bad enough with one of you, let alone both.”

“I’m far worse,” Jamie huffs indignantly. “I’m much more in love than – ”

David holds up his hands. “All _right_ , it’s not a sodding contest,” he whines, chucking Jamie’s tie back at him. “I swear, one day your husbands are just going to turn up and shake their heads at the both of you. I’ll see you later, all right? Try not to be so ridiculously flirty with Gaz as always. You’re _married_ , for christsakes.”

Jamie looks mutinous.

-

One thing that David noticed as far back as September is that for two people so happily (and sickeningly) married, Gary and Jamie indulge in an awful lot of unresolved sexual tension. It crackles both on and off-screen; when they’re not playing will-they-won’t-they handsie on national television they’re engaging in what David can only describe as loving banter. If he was either of their partners he’d be pretty worried, all the ostensible praise notwithstanding.

He knows it’s none of his business, but when they start smiling at each other across the desk like they’re in some ridiculous romantic comedy, he knows he’s got to do something about it. At commercial break he goes to find Graeme Souness, confident that if anyone can talk sense into Jamie, it’s probably the only person he’s afraid of.

“Souey, I’ve got a question,” he says nervously. It’s lucky that Redders is also in the room to relieve some of the tension, or he thinks he’d be pissing in his pants right about now.

“Spit it out, lad,” Graeme says sharply.

David takes a deep breath. “Do you think Gary and Jamie are…getting it on?”

“I feel violated,” Redders says faintly.

“Not you, fuck’s sake,” David rolls his eyes. “Carragher.”

“ _Oh._ ” Redders turns pink and looks back down at his notes, although he’s obviously still listening.

“Yeah,” Graeme says slowly, his Thinking Face on. “They’re always giggling with each other and all that. I think I saw under-the-suit fondling once, even. It’s inappropriate, really, if you ask me.”

David is horrified. “But they’re _married_ ,” he protests. “They can’t be that obvious! What would their husbands say?”

“That’s for them to sort out themselves,” Redders says primly, and David is sure that he’s going to launch into a spiel about how he and Louise have had the Best Marriage Ever because they always work things out between them without any outside help. He’s also sure that it would have been extremely convincing but for the fact that at that moment, the lift _pings_ , and the doors open to reveal Gary Neville and Jamie Carragher locked in a very real, very unambiguous make-out session.

The three of them exchange looks and decide without words to stage an Intervention immediately.

“Lads,” Graeme begins in no uncertain terms, causing Gary and Jamie to look round, startled and sheepish. “I think we need to talk.”

“What about?” Gary says, his hand instinctively – instinctively! David thinks, scandalised – covering Jamie’s.

“This is terribly, terribly wrong,” David frets. “You’re _married._ You can’t fool around with each other like that!”

“Uhm,” Jamie says, wrinkling his brow. “I think you’ll find we can.”

“Marriage is the ultimate institution,” Redders intones, putting his best preacher voice on. “You can’t just violate it like that!”

“Did I just hear more than one three-syllable word from you? In the same sentence?” Gary asks with interest.

David shakes his head angrily. “Stop changing the subject, Neville,” he growls. “You’re ruining people’s lives here! What would your husband think if he knew about this?”

Looks are exchanged, before Gary raises a quizzical brow. “I imagine…he’d be okay with this.”

“Damn it, man,” Graeme thunders, and everyone in the room quails involuntarily. “The Manc has got someone at home who loves him, Jamie. I know he’s a Manc twat, but you need to respect that.”

“He hasn’t got anyone at home who loves him,” Jamie says slowly.

“Yes, he does!” David’s voice has reached levels of near hysteria. “He’s always banging on about him!”

“No, he doesn’t,” Jamie repeats, giving David a burning look of judgement. “Because I’m standing right here, you idiot.”

The room goes very, very quiet, save for the sound of three brains going into sudden overdrive. Graeme is the first one to click and he stares at them, open-mouthed. David swallows loudly and hopes that if he digs his fingers into his palms hard enough the embarrassment will go away. A look of (very, very) slow realisation begins to spread across Redders’ face.

“You mean – ”

“Take your time,” Gary says patiently.

“You mean I know both of you,” Redders says at last, utterly scandalised, “and I _didn’t get an invitation_?”


	11. carraville + bikes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> based on jamie's obvious [bike](https://68.media.tumblr.com/9e33e2bcad4fe5c1155611368188e95f/tumblr_oh1e2vGJ401vxi1gko1_540.jpg) [kink](https://68.media.tumblr.com/5b0e158ddd2ee58c48660a53cfba5b7c/tumblr_ofk53qm75a1rjrrfho1_540.png))

Jamie's looking at Gary weird, and while the 'I'm not sure if I want to fight or fuck you' expression on his face is not necessarily out of the ordinary, the circumstances (Gary putting on a helmet while sitting on a bike) are new.

"What?" Gary says, slightly unnerved.

Jamie shakes his head. "Nothing." 

Gary thinks he knows what this is about. "I look a right twat, don't I?" he grimaces, taking the helmet off and eyeballing it. "Becks thought it'd be funny as a birthday present." 

The name seems to trigger something in Jamie, and when he next looks back it's with his usual sneering face. "You're always a twat," he points out, and Gary chucks one of his gloves at him.

-

_ Carragher MNF: You get home OK? _

Gary frowns at this. Jamie's never asked that before, and surely it can't be just because he's chosen an alternative means of transport - this is getting into dangerous Caring Territory.

He texts back a short  _ yeah _ , and then tosses his phone onto the sofa. His return five minutes later is not borne out of a compulsive attention to tidiness so much as a need to find out:  _ why? _

Jamie doesn't text back for about a half hour, which is strange because he's always on his phone. Gary's starting to get a little worried when finally his text message alert goes.

_ Carragher MNF: thought youd fuck up again somehow as usual _

_ Fair point _ , Gary texts back, but there's something niggling at him even as he pockets his phone, as if he knows that Jamie didn't take so long to reply because he was busy, but because he didn't know what to say.

-

The next time Gary does it, Jamie says, "mate," and nothing else, which is disturbing in its own way. 

"What exactly is that supposed to mean?" he sniffs as he buckles his helmet. 

"You look like Gareth Keenan at Chasers," Jamie snickers, although Gary knows him long enough to know that he's not just trying to be funny, even though he hasn't known him long enough to realise exactly what else he's trying to convey just yet.

"I do not," he frowns, and rides off on his bike insistently, leaving Jamie in the dust. Except later (against his better judgement) he takes a selfie with his helmet on and checks Google. Much to his consternation Jamie is actually accurate. 

"I am  _ not _ Gareth Keenan at Chasers," he vows, and posts the picture on instagram just to prove it. Unfortunately, social media is apparently filled of people who all think the same way, and it really isn't helped by Jamie hijacking the picture and putting it on  _ his  _ instagram. 

_ Didnt give u permission to put that up,  _ he types furiously. 

_ Carragher MNF: I do what i want  _

_ Why are u so obsessed with the Keenan thing anw????  _

_ Carragher MNF: I like ur face  _

Gary sits back at that and stares at his phone for the longest period of time, totally unsure about what that's supposed to mean. It has all the trademark Carragher sarcasm to it, but at the same time one did not usually put the face of one's mortal enemy on one's social media just for the sake of a joke. 

In the end he forgoes a response for a drink instead, which is probably the safest thing to do.

-

"Oi, Neville," Jamie calls one day as he's leaving the studio. Gary turns to give him a two-fingered salute.

"Yeah?"

"D'you deliver pizza?" 

"Fuck off," Gary replies, and guns the engine so that he's well away before Jamie can throw any more insults at him. Which is a pity, because that means that when Jamie says 'because you could deliver to my place' and then buries his face in his hands at the sheer cringeworthiness of it all, he isn't around to laugh his arse off.

-

Gary's starting to think that maybe the bike thing is getting out of hand, because he's forty-bloody-one years old, and he  _ really  _ shouldn't be doing shit like this, and it was probably all a mid-life crisis anyway. Besides, it doesn't help at all when your co-presenter starts leaving stupid comments on all of your pictures. "The fuck is 'helmet'?" he complains one day as he walks into the studio, carrying the offending object and plonking it down on his seat. 

"The fuck is 'bike'?" Jamie retorts, spitefully pushing the helmet off of the chair. Gary glares at him. "If you don't want banter, Gary, then come up with better fucking captions." 

Gary pulls a face. "Well, you'll be glad there won't be any more captions. I'm thinking of quitting biking."

"Good," Jamie says, with a vehemence that is surprising in its intensity. Gary stares at him. 

"Okay, now I think I'll go on with it," he says slowly, squinting at Jamie suspiciously. "Just to piss you off. You don't like me biking?" 

Jamie twists his lips and tilts his head from side to side, the way he always does when he's trying to think of the least embarrassing thing to say. "It's not so much that I don't like you biking," he says at last, looking down at his shoes and refusing to meet Gary's eyes. "It's more of. Well."

"I won't tell anyone," Gary snorts. Jamie is being ridiculously indirect, which is weird, because he's the most blunt bastard Gary's ever met. 

"I'm afraid you'll fall off," Jamie eventually manages to mumble, before waving his hands around with a vague helplessness and turning bright red.

Gary stares at him for a full five seconds, mouth slightly open, not saying a word.

"What?" Jamie snipes, defensive and slightly unnerved. 

"I didn't - " Gary splutters to life - "I mean - why would you -  _ what _ ?" 

"I told you," Jamie says simply. "I like your face. Even though it looks like someone used you as a punching bag. Twice."

Jamie Carragher likes his face. Jamie Carragher likes him. Gary leans back a little, his eyes still wide, valiantly trying to process this new information. The thought is so shocking and out of nowhere that he hasn't even begun to realise the other shocking part of this - that he likes Jamie back.

"You don't tell a soul," Jamie warns, bending down to pick up Gary's helmet from the ground. "And it isn't like I'm telling you not to, honest. I just. Get worried." 

Gary's brain has regained enough function for him to reach over and grab Jamie's hand just as it balances the helmet back on the table. He can feel Jamie stiffen under the sudden contact, and he squeezes his fingers to convey what he could never hope to say out loud. Jamie gives him a small, nervous smile. 

"This must be a first," Gary says. "A Scouser actually trying to save a Manc's life instead of ending it." 

"Die in a fire," says Jamie.

Gary raises an eyebrow. "I thought the point was me not doing that." 

Jamie lets go of the helmet and turns his palm upwards so that he ends up holding Gary's hand. "Only when I'm the one throwing you in it," he smirks, some of his swagger returning. Gary rolls his eyes, but he doesn't let go.

"Funnily enough, I like your face too," he grins shyly. "Even though it looks like Wile E. Coyote after he's been smashed in by an anvil. Twice." 

"Shut it, Keenan," Jamie says, and leans forward to kiss him.

-

Gary sells his bike.


	12. gerlonso + christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gerlonso christmas fluff! so pure!

Ever since the great Christmas debacle of 1998, end-of-year parties have been exceedingly dull. Stevie is a person who considers himself a party animal, but even he thinks that having to suffer through Dietmar Hamann singing  _ Silent Night  _ is pushing it. He blames Carra.

"Shut up," Carra moans, smacking him with a vol-au-vent. 

"Am I wrong, Mr. Hunchback without a Lunchpack?"

"Shut. Up." Carra comforts himself by stuffing his mouth and waving his bottle of wine at Stevie, who snatches it from his hand and fills his cup. He's probably drunk far too much already, so it's just as well Xabi's the designated driver. 

He turns to look at Xabi, who hasn't moved from his spot in the corner, obscured from the rest of the party almost like he doesn't want to be there. In fact the only reason Stevie knows where he is is - well - something he'd rather not talk about. He knows Xabi's new and all that, so maybe he isn't comfortable, but at least he could make an effort. 

"Go on and do something about it, then," Carra slurs, following his gaze. "Go be a good captain and all that." 

"I think I will," Stevie says with determination. He usually finds it easy to make the new lads feel at home, but Xabi's prroven harder than the rest, and it's not (just) because 

"You liiiike him," Carra grins, and if the rest of the room hadn't already been drunk off its tits to pay attention, Stevie would have died.

Determined not to let Jamie Carragher ruin his evening, Stevie snatches the bottle from Carra's hand and marches towards Xabi's corner, tuning out all the boozy Scouse protests. Xabi sees him coming from a mile off (of course) and smiles that absurd half-smile Stevie hates because he never knows what it means. 

"Hello, Skipper," he says in his ridiculously good English, holding his hand out in greeting. Stevie bats it away irritably.

"Surely we're past handshakes." 

"If you say so." Xabi retracts his hand, his expression unchanged. It's like he knows how much of a twat he's being just to wind Stevie up. If he's doing it on purpose, he's succeeding.

"Have a drink," Stevie snaps, uncorking the bottle and tipping it towards the empty glass in Xabi's other hand."

"If you say so," Xabi repeats, tilting his glass forward to make it easier for Stevie. The bottle slips against the glass and Stevie's hand instinctively reaches out to steady it, which is not a great move if the hand of the bloke you Don't Like is already there.

He draws his hand back immediately, as if the skin contact has burned him. Xabi's fingers are warm and rough from training, and the smirk on his face has grown even wider. "Your face is red," he says innocently, nodding at Stevie, who snorts.

"It's the wine, mate," he insists, waving a dismissive hand. 

"If you say so," says Xabi, and Stevie makes a silent promise that he will launch a personal vendetta against Spanish bastards if he says that again.

There's an uncomfortable silence. At least it is on Stevie's part. Xabi looks like he's enjoying himself.

"How are you liking Liverpool?" Stevie asks at length, although he's not really asking that. Because it's an open secret, Stevie and Liverpool, and maybe what he's hoping is Xabi liking Liverpool would equate to something else.

"I have been here for months," Xabi says demurely, in one of his trademark non-answers. An alcohol-fuelled surge of frustration swells within Stevie, and he shakes his head stubbornly.

"No, no, you don't get it," he complains, jabbing an indignant finger into Xabi's (very muscular and very nice) chest. "What I mean is - I mean - do you  _ like  _ Liverpool?"

Xabi looks into Stevie's eyes for a moment, straight and true, not like the half-glances and side eyes he's so fond of. Just his soft brown eyes against Stevie's own, and Stevie feels his breath hitch a little, as if his soul had been laid bare for Xabi to see. 

"Yes," Xabi says, averting his eyes. "I like Liverpool. Very much." 

Stevie manages a wavering, uncertain smile. 

"That's good, then," he says, turning even more red. "I'm glad." 

"And you like me?" 

The directness of the question almost makes Stevie spit out his drink. "What?" he splutters, as if it's really a surprise that Xabi Perceptive Bastard Alonso, of all people, hasn't noted his Obvious Drooling and Completely Unnecessary Enthusiasm (such a great player!  _ Such a great player! _ ) ever since he arrived.

"Do you like me," Xabi repeats, now very amused, "my football?"

"Oh," Stevie chuckles nervously. "Yes. You're almost as good as me." 

Xabi grins and takes a step closer. "I'm glad," he says, dropping his voice to a whisper that makes Stevie swallow.

Xabi's eyes are on him again, burning with that curious mix of entertainment and intensity that he does so well. Stevie laughs again and looks away, only to pale when something just above Xabi's head catches his eye instead.

"Mistletoe," he mumbles, half-pointing, his throat dry and inwardly cursing his luck of all the bloody places.

"Do you suppose those traditions apply to us?" Xabi asks,  _ most  _ innocently.

Stevie bites his lip. "I, um. I dunno. It's some kind of bad luck, though, innit, if you...don't?"

"We should not risk it, then," Xabi nods, serious. And before Stevie even registers what's happening, Xabi has leaned in and pressed his mouth to Stevie's cheek, his lips hot against the stubble along his jaw.

Stevie trembles under the touch, hardly daring to breathe, as if to do so would ruin the illusion. It seems to last forever but somehow it's also all too short and then Xabi's stopped, although he lingers by Stevie's ear. "Merry Christmas, Steven Gerrard," he murmurs, his breath shallow and warm.

Stevie blames the alcohol for what happens next. He even blames Carra, really. But even as Xabi's drawing away Stevie turns his face and pushes his lips against Xabi's, closing his eyes to take in the softness of Xabi's skin. He can feel Xabi stiffen for a split second before instinct takes over and he tilts his head to deepen the kiss, his tongue flicking out against Stevie's teeth. They stand there, leaning into each other, their hands by their sides, and it's so unbearably soft that Stevie almost forgets where he is.

They're both quiet when they finally break apart, and Stevie is the first to laugh, feeling like his heart could jump out of his chest. Xabi smiles at him and it's the first genuine smile he's ever seen, all traces of amusement gone.

"I'm a little relieved," Stevie says, conscious of how dopey he must look. "Lucky the mistletoe was there to save me from saying something stupid, eh?"

"Very lucky," Xabi agrees, although something flicks across his face very quickly. Stevie squints at him.

"A total coincidence," he says slowly, twisting his nose with a growing suspicion. "That you'd be standing here, the whole party, under the only mistletoe in the room, watching me get steadily drunk. You weren't expecting me to come over at all." 

"If you say so," Xabi says serenely, and kisses him again.


	13. carraville + research

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> carraville as football researchers? why yes

"Who," mutters Gary, slamming the sheafs of paper onto the table, "is this man?"

Phil peers over at the title, which is basically Gary's last research article but with a question mark tacked onto the end, and that is never a good sign. "Jamie Carragher," he reads aloud. "Sounds familiar. Was he the bloke who wrote a paper last year about captains and club identity?" 

Gary pauses from where he's trying to dig a hole to the centre of the earth by sheer movement of his feet "Oh.  _ Oh.  _ That stupid twat. I called him out on overstating the role of the captain. I mean, what the fuck does he know, going off just Gerrard?" 

"He's probably asking the same question about you," Phil points out sagely as he flicks through the review. "Doesn't seem very happy the way you've ignored all these preeetty comprehensive stats about Wembley visitorship." 

"Just because someone goes to a game doesn't mean they feel English," Gary retorts, snatching the paper from Phil and giving it a look worthy of the Paul Scholes Judgemental Eyeball Hall of Fame. "What's he on about, anyhow? There's nothing wrong with my research methodology!"

"He probably heard about you dribbling alfredo sauce all over the FA's files."

Gary scowls.

\---

_ While Mr. Carragher's arguments hold merit, it should be noted that his observations regarding the societal make-up of people who attend England games has no bearing on my original conclusions whatsoever. Identity - be it national or otherwise - cannot be assumed to be constructed simply by turning up at a stadium. Much in the same way as a club cannot be defined purely through its captain, no matter how slippery he is. _

\---

"Did he just," Jamie says while he's steaming away like a pork bun in a Chinese restaurant, "use the slip joke? In a fucking journal review?" 

"Eh, don't worry about it." Stevie looks far less concerned than he has reason to be. "He's a Manc, isn't he? They only have the one joke about me." 

"Well. That and the sending off." 

Stevie glares at him. Jamie shakes his head and returns his focus to the true object of his consternation. "Who the fuck does he think he is? 'Mr. Carragher makes the schoolboy error of using statistics without any meaningful connection to conclusions'? THEY'RE SELF-EVIDENT." 

" _ Please  _ don't yell," Stevie complains, casting a nervous eye to where the kids are sleeping upstairs. Jamie's repeatedly offered to solve the problem by swapping houses entirely, but somehow the Gerrard family isn't very keen on a miniscule box in Toxeth. 

"Right, well, obviously I need to do something about this." Jamie sniffs, scrunching up his nose as he sits down heavily, whips open his laptop with such force he thinks he might have broken it for a moment, and pulls up a word document. "This wanker had better be well shut up by the end of the week."

\---

_ Last month, I wrote a review questioning Mr. Neville's conclusions and methodology with perfectly sound arguments of my own. He has, however, chosen to respond with poorly-disguised jokes about my football team. I will not stoop to his level.  _

_ National identity is an incredibly complex concept to grasp, and this is compounded when discussing English national identity, given its association with British identity, its history, and the way the majority - white, middle class males - interact with the margins. Mr. Neville seems entirely to miss the point of national identity formation, which is unsurprising, considering United's 3% conversion rate this season. _

\---

"Too. Far." 

Phil looks up. Gary's head is just beginning its overripe tomato stage. 

"He does like his stats, doesn't he?" the younger Neville is particularly impressed at how Carragher's gone and managed to fit all of the worst league start numbers in between an admittedly interesting discussion.

"Fuck his stats," Gary fumes. "Fuck his opinions. Fuck him." 

Phil purses his lips and refrains from commenting. 

\---

_ Mr. Carragher's arguments begin to border on the desperate and salty. Nevertheless, I will attempt to address his concerns as politely as possible. Hopefully my discussion will be more fruitful than the last twenty-six years of Liverpool's title hunts. _

\---

Jamie walks into the room, hits Stevie in the chest with the written reply, and mimes a strangling motion. Stevie tuts as he flips through.

"Look, he's even managed to sneak in a deluded Brendan tweet."

"I am going to be civil." The ferocity with which Jamie is hitting the keyboard, like a baseball player trying to crack open a pistachio with a sledgehammer, suggests otherwise. "I am going to be civil. I am going to be - "

\---

_ So I started this blog because the Sports in Society people rejected my article for having too much offensive language. Would just like to posit a respectful question to Mr. Neville: WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU ON ABOUT? _

\---

"Are you reading this?" Never in the field of human conflict has so much been made of so little by so few. 

"Mate, you're obsessed." 

"Enraged," Gary corrects, furiously typing out a comment.

\---

_ Mr. Carragher, this is Mr. Neville. I presume you are familiar with the term 'bullshit'. I can assure you that your opinions rank far below that of Piers Morgan. Yes. I went there. _

\---

_ It would seem that Mr. Neville has discovered the existence of this blog. Before I ruthlessly and totally destroy his arguments, I would just like to bring up the fact that the last time United had four consecutive draws at home was 1980.  _

_ \--- _

_ Before I respond to the disaster that was Mr. Carragher's poor attempts to deconstruct my analysis, I would just like to point out that 1980 was also the last time Liverpool was remotely relevant. _

_ \--- _

_ I think you'll find it was 1990. _

_ \--- _

_ As recently as that???? My apologies. _

_ \--- _

_ At least we still haven't lost 4-0 to MK Dons. _

_ \--- _

_ You did 6-1 to Stoke, though. _

_ \--- _

_ Fight me. _

_ \--- _

_ Oh, I will. Brüggemeier's lecture examining the links between Germany's three world cups in London next week. Be there. _

_ \--- _

_ Bring your arse, Neville, so that I can hand it to you. _

_ \--- _

_ I'd tell you to bring yours, but it looks like you already are one. _

_ \--- _

Gary Neville and Jamie Carragher meet, for the first time, in a crowded room of academics and doddery old men. Stevie, who's come as a favour to Jamie, has just ducked out of another group of autograph hunters (doddery old men are the worst) and finds himself next to Phil.

"Oh, hello," Phil says, reaching out a hand. "You must be the friend of the man my brother is so desperate to kill slash bang." 

"Did you notice that too?" Stevie asks, taking it. "I swear, the unresolved sexual tension was terrible. And that was over the internet." 

"Gary kept getting that gleam in his eyes where he's outwardly pissed but secretly enjoying the witty repertoire." 

"Carra wouldn't shut up about your brother for  _ weeks _ ." 

"Oh, yeah? I got calls at two in the sodding morning along the lines of 'HEY REMEMBER THAT CRAP CARRAGHER POSTED THREE DAYS AGO'."

"Oh, yeah? Carra called him  _ Gary  _ the other day. Frightening."

"Where d'you think they've gone?" Phil looks around, searching in vain for the two of them, surprised that the world hasn't exploded yet.

"Dunno," Stevie shrugs. "Maybe they're having an angry make out session in the bathroom."

Paul slips into the seat next to Phil just then, his face the winner of the Paul Scholes Incredibly Disgusted Lifetime Achievement Award. "Don't go to the men's," he says with his nose scrunched up. "I think there's someone in there fucking the lights out of each other." 

Phil pales.

\---

They're now writing a paper together.


	14. scheville 2.0 + hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> scheville 2.0 + hand holding

"Jesus  _ fucking  _ Christ," you hear someone muttering as they unzip the laundry bag and a sliver of moonlight falls onto your face. "Phil? You all right?" 

You're thirteen years old and you're shivering like a stick in the wind as Paul - you recognise his voice immediately, of course - reaches in to haul you out. The sky's already dark outside and you find yourself standing in the middle of a field, the dampness of the grass beginning to seep into your socks. Paul's looking at you like he's afraid you're going to crack into a million pieces. His hands are still on your shoulders, even if he has to reach up to do that. 

"Phil," he says again, and his voice is so firm, so unequivocal, that you feel the heaving in your chest slow with that one word. 

"McAuley and Lydiate," you stammer. You think you might be sick. "Caught me by - by surprise. Locked me up. Thought we'd go to the - laundry room." 

You know that's where they took Paul and Butty earlier in the year and you didn't think it'd be so bad, because they'd gotten through all right and the laundry room was in the building anyway, all warm and dry. But now you can't feel your toes because you're stood shoeless in the middle of bloody  _ nowhere  _ and all you've got is your kit and it's the middle of November. 

Paul's noticed your lack of footwear. "Take mine," he says, kicking his boots off. His tone brooks no argument. "S'only a short walk to the bus stop, I'll manage."

The leather is still warm from his feet as you slip them on gratefully. He waves away your eager thanks with an irritable shake of his head, shoves his jacket at you without a word. You put it on as he's already hurrying off the field, ginger hair dark under the moonlight. 

You sit side by side at the bus stop, his feet dangling just above the ground where he still can't reach. "How'd you know?" you ask, turning your head to look at him. "Where I was?" 

"They told Gaz," Paul says. "But they made sure Coach put him down for extra laps first so that he couldn't come get you." 

"Why'd you come, then?" 

"He asked me." 

Of course he did, you think, a sudden, inexplicable sadness falling over you like a soft blanket. You don't know why, but you'd been hoping for something different. Something like I wanted to, or something like you're important to me. Maybe.

"And - " he looks down at his feet, frowning. "Just wanted to make sure you were all right."

His watch beeps for midnight. It's freezing out and you wonder if you ought to say something, but he isn't looking at you, so you decide not to be brave that way today. Instead you say his name.

"Scholesy?" 

He turns, and you're struck, suddenly, by the way he looks at you, with no characteristic grump, just soft blue eyes.

"Yeah?" 

"Could you do something for me?"

"What?" 

You swallow and you're very aware of the fact that you're wearing his jacket, his shoes, that he's sitting beside you here in the middle of nowhere, at midnight, ready to do whatever it is you'd ask him to.

"Hold my hand."

 

 

  
And he does.


	15. goles?? schiggs?? + old age

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whatever it is that scholesy and giggsy are called + Horizon!AU follow-up

"Doing anything today?" 

"Nah."

It's cold outside. The leaves have fallen off all the trees and are littered across the ground, orange and a pale red. Ryan looks out of the window, one hand propped under his chin. The sunlight falls on his face in flecks. 

You look at him, this face you've known forever, the lines of his face weathered as the pitches you've shared. Everything is grey, from the glint in his eyes to his hair. You went grey not long after he did, but he still calls you Ginger. 

"We should have a kickabout," you grin. Ryan looks down and chuckles. 

"Only if you sit in one too."

There are a few things you hate. Liverpool is one. Gary's poor excuse for a moustache is another. The handlebars on Ryan's chair are the latest addition, its wheels almost mocking. Of course he of all of you would end up like this, you think. Of course.

"Nah." The look you give him says nothing and everything at the same time. "Anyhow, no point. I'd beat you easily, old man."

"Please. You flatter yourself." 

It's Sunday, or it might be Monday, you can't remember. Someone's already taken the bins out. They keep telling you that you don't have to stop by but you do it anyway, since you live so close anyhow. (If two hours is close, but then you will always run to see him, because he was the one who stayed besides you when you stopped.)

Old age is - old age is. Old age is remembering, very suddenly, the things you used to be able to do without actually doing them anymore. It is catching his face sometimes on Best Players Never To Play At A World Cup, smiling at how you used to rib him about it. It is knowing that once you were Good and once you had Dreams and once you were able to Chase them, and it is learning to live with yourself if you failed.  

"How's the coffee?" he asks, tilting his head at the cup in your hands.

"Shit." 

"Fuck off." 

But you didn't fail, did you? You caught your dreams. You both did, even if it doesn't seem to mean anything in the end. The red fabric is twisted into you just as it is into him, leaking into your blood, maroon smearing your cheeks. As if it's the only thing that matters in the world.

(And it is, see. The only thing that matters in the world.)

He's quiet again. You can see he's thinking - he often does this - there's not much else to do when you're a retiree who can't move your legs. Briefly you wonder what he's thinking about but then decide not to ask, and in any case you've known him for so long and so well that you don't need to ask anyway. Instead you put down the coffee. It  _ clinks _ against the glass of the table and he turns to look at you.

"You were the best player I ever played with, you know," you say.

"I know," he says, and smiles.


	16. beville + sleeping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beville + the excellent, _excellent_ [anything that isn't this](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4968706) au

"Hey," you say.

David doesn't move, but then again you didn't expect him to. He's lying perfectly still on the crisp white sheets, his fingers flat against the surface. The steady beep of the heart monitor in the background is both a terrible reminder and the only hope you can cling on to. Victoria says sometimes his eyelids move, like Phil's, though no one's seen that for a while now.

You'd taken the first train down to London when you'd heard. It seems almost callous to abandon your brother when he's sleeping there, pale and small, but Scholesy had looked up at you with his bright eyes and said, "go." So you had gone. 

Victoria was waiting for you at the hospital foyer, her shoulders uncharacteristically sloped. "Thank you," she said as she led you towards the room. You assume she meant for coming. "Thank you," you'd replied, for letting me.

You'd seen it on the news, of course, because everything that David Beckham does is news, even falling asleep. It was never something you begrudged him for, just made him different. Made everyone call you two an odd couple, the boy built for fame and the boy too ugly for any, and maybe you enjoyed that label even if David had always hated it. Maybe with that label you could pretend to believe in what the rest of the world thought.

Nothing you've seen on telly or in the papers hits you as hard as standing in the doorway. Victoria slips away quietly, wearing sports shoes instead of heels, but you don't notice she's gone. Every time you see him you expect his hair to be blonder than it actually is now, that shade of startling bright gold you remember from the Cliff. But then you remember a lot of things from the Cliff. It would be sentimental and stupid to bring it up now.

"It's me," you try again, your voice hard-edged in your throat, sounding almost foreign even though it's yours. "Gaz." 

You wonder what to qualify that with - best friend? ex-teammate? did you love each other, once? did he love you? - and decide to leave it at that. It isn't like he can hear, anyway.

You've walked up to the edge of the bed, close enough to touch. Your coat is draped over both your arms. You set it down on the back of the chair and then take a seat, trying not to think about who's sat here in the last few days, and what that makes you. David is what matters right now. 

"Bet you hate that shite hospital gown," you grin at him, trying to disguise the cracks that have appeared in your smile. "I'm surprised they didn't put you in some custom-made thing designed by Tom fucking Ford or summat." 

The thought makes you choke back a sob, out of the blue and absolutely uncalled for, and you are furious with yourself. He was the one who'd bought you your first Tom Ford suit. 

"I'm sorry," you say, reaching for his hand now, pressing your fingers around his feverish, lifeless ones. Not lifeless, you tell yourself sternly. Just sleeping. You feel like crying except you know you wouldn't stop if you did, so you take a deep, long, shuddering breath instead. "I'm sorry, Becks." 

Some part of you thinks his eyes will flick open and he'll turn to look at you, the lazy smile playing on his face like always. Don't be daft, he'd say, still in that cockney accent that's taken him so bloody long to lose. What are you sorry for? 

You don't know, really. That he's stuck like this, that you can't do anything about it, that you should have said everything while you still could. That's the problem with endings, isn't it. Not knowing when they're coming until they're already here.

Your phone is heavy in your pocket.  _ London next month, meet up? _ St Paul's looms large outside the window and you drown it out by tracing your thumb along the paper-thin veins in his wrist. He seems to stir and you press down, hard, instinctive, as if you could jolt him awake.

But he doesn't move. His eyelashes gleam in the light. Still holding his hand, you lean close till your lips brush his ear. "Of course, you twat." If your voice breaks you don't notice. "S'long as it takes." 

For a moment you're twenty-eight, and his hair is brighter than the sun again as he stands in front of you, more nervous than you've ever seen him.  _ I'll come back, I promise, if you'll wait for me? _ He grins at your reply when he hears it, relief washing over his face like a wave.  _ Gaz. I'll come back for you. _

Of course things hadn't quite worked out that way, Iker and America and all of that, but when you were twenty-eight believing had been the easiest thing in the world. "You promised, pretty boy," you whisper now. Your heart dies in your throat. "Come back. For me." 

He sleeps on, you dream on, and the hollow in your chest grows as if he isn't in front of you, warm, real.


	17. mcgrowler + being set up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Christmas fic for Julija! bc somehow I forgot to post this whoops

“You’re fucking joking,” Robbie says.

Jamie shakes his head. The smile on his face is bordering on the nefarious the way only Jamie can make it - sort of trying to be evil but looking like a puppy having a breakdown instead. “I guarantee this one.” As if to punctuate his statement he does the OK hand sign that no one’s seen since the nineties. “You’re going to love him.”

“Like I loved the fifteen other blokes you’ve tried to put me up with?” Robbie retorts, rolling his eyes and reaching for the paper instead. Ever since he came out to Jamie, Jamie’s been trying to make up for it by getting him dates with literally every single gay person he knows. Even if it’s Dave who he met on the street as he was going to get his hair cut.

“You’re thinking about Dave again, aren’t you,” Jamie wrinkles his nose.

“Yes, well. It’s hard to forget people who steal your wallet on the first date. That’s at _least_ a second date thing.”

“I didn’t know he was such a melt!”

Robbie gives Jamie a friendly pat on the back. “Face it, mate, you don’t have the greatest taste in men.”

“I swear, Growler, this bloke is _the shit_ ,” Jamie says stubbornly. He’s obviously been hanging out with Jack too much. “You’ll love him. He’s got your sense of humour, as awful as that is.”

Robbie tilts his head. “Intriguing. How d'you know him?”

“He’s an old mate from uni. I ran into him the other week, we got to talking, and it turns out he’s dead easy to convince to take a handsome stranger out to dinner.”

“You told him I was _handsome_? He’s going to be so disappointed.”

Jamie looks up hopefully. “Does that mean you’ll go?”

“Of course.” Robbie rolls his eyes at Jamie’s happy face. He might be a walking disaster of a human being, but he’s still his best mate. “Next Friday, yeah?”

 

-

 

Next Friday, in reflection, is a very long time away. As it turns out, it’s more than enough time to find a bloke of your own you’d much rather go out with than some wanker your friend with no sense of propriety is gunning for.

Robbie meets Steve in the organic foods section of the local Tesco, which is ironic, because - as it turns out - both of them loathe organic food with a passion. Robbie just happens to be there because he needs to buy something for dinner and Jamie is so big on Being Healthy and all that crap, and he doesn’t see Steve who’s bent down tying his shoelace until he’s gone and tripped all over him.

“ _Fucking_ hell,” he swears, scrambling to his feet and bending down to offer a hand to the bloke he’s just done in. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you there.”

“That’s funny,” the other man says, looking down at Robbie (he’s really fucking tall, which is unfortunate). “Ordinarily I probably wouldn’t have seen _you_.”

Normal people would have bristled at the insult but Robbie is jolted into a laugh instead, pleasantly surprised by the response. “You were camouflaged,” he explains easily. “Since you look like an asparagus and all that.”

They’ve only just met but it feels, strangely enough, like Robbie’s known him all of his life, so easy is the conversation that immediately flows between them. The other man is a Scouser too, which helps, and also serves the additional benefit of causing anyone strange enough to be lurking in organic foods to run away as quickly as possible, given the accent.

They spend about ten minutes trading insults before remembering to introduce themselves properly. Robbie learns that his name is Steve and that he vastly prefers frozen pizzas to asparagus, so that’s an immediate tick in his book. It must be another twenty minutes of just standing there, talking, and he hasn’t had something this easy ever happen to him. It’s almost like being in an American romantic comedy, minus the slapstick and Adam Sandler.

As it turns out, it’s Steve’s first time in the city, in on business for the week, and before he knows it he’s offered to bring Steve out to see the sights sometime.

Steve grins at him. “I’d love that,” he says, fishing around in his pocket and handing Robbie a crumpled business card that’s already begun fading at the edges. “Give me a call, yeah? And maybe after we could get drinks?”

He wiggles his eyebrows and Robbie suppresses a very undignified giggle. Steve is, he supposes, handsome in a squidgy kind of way; curly blonde hair that’s far too long and a funny sort of mushed-up face, but his clear grey eyes sparkle with a brightness that’s so rarely found in other people, and his smile is endearingly boyish.

“Maybe,” he finds himself agreeing against his better judgement. Jamie would probably kill him for it, or at least make a show of attempting to before offering to drive them around or something. “As long as you’re not a raving psychopath.”

“You’ll have to risk that,” Steve grins. “I could be a Manc in disguise, bent on destroying anyone who supports Liverpool.”

Robbie pulls a face. “That would be very disappointing. First interesting person I’ve met in ages.”

“I’m flattered.”

“Don’t be, it isn’t hard.”

Steve laughs and edges past him with a wave goodbye, their shoulders brushing as he walks. Robbie feels a twitch in his jaw that he can’t really explain away, but there’s a wide smile on his face, and his fingers curl around the warm edges of _Steve McManaman – Project Manager_ as he leaves.

 

-

 

Jamie despairs.

“I go through _all that trouble_ and you’ve got yourself someone else?” he complains on Friday evening, his hands in his pockets as he wears a hole in his own carpet. “You ungrateful little bastard.”

Robbie shrugs. “It’s not like I was looking for anything to happen,” he protests, sat comfortably on the couch and amusing himself with Jamie’s increasingly frenetic state. “Besides, it’s all your fault, really. If you didn’t like salads and shit we’d never have met.”

“What’s his name?” Jamie mutters indignantly, balling his hands into fists as if he could do anything about it. “I need to run him through databases and stuff just to make sure he isn’t bad news.”

“You set me up with _a homeless pickpocket._ ”

Jamie winces. “Will you ever forget Dave?”

“If I get back my Nectar card, maybe.” Robbie folds his arms across his chest and sighs. “Listen, I’m still going to have dinner with your bloke, aren’t I? It’s just that this’ll be the end of it.”

Jamie sits down and runs a hand through his hair, looking at Robbie like a lamb trying to be Sherlock Holmes. “You like this guy, huh?”

“He seems really nice,” Robbie says, a small, embarrassed grin crossing his face. “I want to give him a shot.”

The doorbell goes off as Jamie gives him a nod. “All right,” he says, beckoning Robbie to the front of the house with him. “But you’re going to have to break the news to Macca yourself, because he was really looking forward to it.”

“Macca – ?”

Even before Robbie can get his question out, Jamie opens the door. The man outside with curly blonde hair and clear grey eyes takes one look at Robbie and begins to laugh.


	18. gerlonso + the stars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anon asked: Gerlonso + things you said under the stars and in the grass

_—— San Sebastian_

“Don’t be scared,” Xabi laughs, clambering down the rocky outcrop as if he was a boy again. “It’s easy.” He turns to look back at Stevie, who’s standing near the top looking down apprehensively. 

“Steven,” he says, eyes twinkling like the stars above them. “Take my hand.” 

Stevie takes his hand, warm and firm to the touch. Xabi leads him down the rocks, picking a path through the jagged edges until Stevie can feel the grain curl between his toes. He looks around, upward, everywhere but Xabi, who watches him with the curious smile that always flits across his face. 

“It’s beautiful,” Stevie breathes, and it is.

“It’s beautiful,” Xabi agrees.

Stevie catches him and flushes, turns towards the sea instead. The crests of the waves glimmer silver as they lap at their feet. He lowers himself onto the ground, running his fingers through the sand. There’s a faint breeze in the air that brushes his skin. He leans back till he’s flat against the beach, and the stars wink above.

Xabi lies down next to him, elbows touching.

“Don’t leave,” Stevie whispers, as if it could ever be that easy. He turns his head a fraction to glance at Xabi, not sure if he heard, not sure if he wanted him to hear. Xabi’s eyes are closed. His nose is tilted towards the sky and the starlight falls dappled over his cheeks. The wind slides through his hair, his jawline curves to meet his ear. It’s beautiful, Stevie thinks, and it is.

 

 

__——_ Anfield_

They’ve just replaced the grass.

It has the fresh sting that hits their noses as they walk onto the pitch, crinkling as their boots touch. “The smell of newly cut grass is actually the grass crying for help,” Xabi remarks, and Stevie doesn’t roll his eyes, because if anyone would know something ridiculous like that, it would be Xabi.

He walks to the halfway line and lies down without a word, the morning dew soaking into the back of his shirt. He can’t see the stars, but he doesn’t have to; the lights of Anfield are bright enough. 

Xabi lies down next to him, elbows touching.

“I won’t leave,” Xabi whispers, turning his head to look at Stevie. His eyes are dark and serious and beautiful. Stevie refuses to meet them. “Steven. I won’t leave.” 

“You are leaving,” Stevie says, looking at the lights.

Xabi runs his fingers through the damp grass and sighs. “Steven. Look at me.” 

Stevie turns. Once upon a time there were stars. 

“I won’t leave,” Xabi says again, slowly, simply, resting on each word until Stevie understands. The wind picks up inside the stadium and howls like it’s an answer. Stevie turns away from Xabi and looks at Anfield, so Xabi looks too. Home, says the wind. Home.

When Xabi turns back, Stevie is waiting for him.

“Xabi,” he says, his eyes as soft as the morning dew. “Take my hand.”


	19. carraville + the L-Word

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> inspired by conversations about the different ways gaz and carra love each other and also how awkward gaz must have been in thanking carra for saying all those lovely things about him when he was in spain!! written in the midst of my essay crisis so don't expect too much!!

It isn't like coming home, really, not the way he thought it would be. Everything seems tilted, off-balance; Gary notices bits and pieces like how they've done up a new poster, or how they've moved Jamie's parking spot two down. He's just walking towards it when Jamie's car pulls up and Jamie gets out, and it's almost a breath of relief that escapes his mouth. For all the way he's sharpened up since the first year - better ties, sharper shoes - he is still very much the same Scouse bastard who once yelled at him to fuck off and die in a fire on a sunny derby day, and Gary appreciates that. Perhaps a little more than he should.

Jamie's face changes when he sees him; Gary notices the flicker of bewilderment shift to brief, undiluted delight, and then back to the knowing smirk that they have both spent years perfecting. They've only met once in the past few months, after Barcelona. There's still a bitterness to the word as he thinks it. Jamie had been Jamie then too, his arm around Gary without saying anything, easing the tiredness with his familiarity.

"Hi," Gary says.

Jamie raises an eyebrow.

"Not seen me for ages and all you can say is 'hi'."

"Well, what would you like me to say?" Gary flushes, his brows knitting together. It's barely been five seconds and Jamie's already got him on the wind-up. Jamie laughs.  

"Nothing." There's a fondness in his voice that Gary both loves and hates in equal measure, and there's a twinge to his smile that makes Gary inhale and exhale again, like he knows it's going to be fine. "You don't have to say anything at all."

They walk into the building side by side, Jamie close enough just so that Gary's shoulder brushes his every once in a while. "Happy Monday, boss," one of the technicians says with a wink and a snide grin. Gary smiles. The corridors are littered with people who are eager to clap him on the back, almost as if Spain didn't exist in this alternate universe.

David shakes his hand and introduces himself with the sort of reverence that will soon disappear after a couple of pints. Then it's off to the clips room and Gary loses himself in the cutting, feeling it come back to him like salvation. They load some of it onto the big screen for the preview and Gary's very aware of the way Jamie keeps smiling at him. It's the long, languid one that reminds Gary of cups of coffee in the morning and sitting on benches for eighteen months. A sort of can't-help-it-ness to it all, a feeling of falling that's so obvious that Gary would have hit him if he didn't know that this was what Jamie was like. Heart on his sleeve.  _ Haven't looked at anyone like that since Gary left. _

He calls him out on it, of course, because he knows it'll get under Jamie's skin. David laughs and says, "he's just happy to have you back." Jamie flushes and looks down, but he can't seem to stop smiling, all shy and dorky like a teenager once more. Gary hates a little bit how easy it comes to him. He'd seen Jamie's appearance on League of Their Own, of course, the way Jamie answered 'love him' immediately, without having to pause and think about how strong a word it was. He wonders if what Jamie means and what he thinks it means are the same thing.

They're sitting in the Soccer AM lounge as they always do before the show and Jamie leans over to give him a nudge in the shoulder. "Hey," he says, almost like he's genuinely concerned. "You okay?"

Gary must have been staring into space again. "Yeah." He looks down at his hands, and then turns to Jamie. "No."

It's hard for him even to get that admission out, and even when he's said it he blinks like he wants to take it back. He's Gary Neville - he doesn't admit things, not least to Professional Co-Workers - emotions aren't things that are supposed to exist in his dictionary. Then again neither was Jamie Carragher. And Jamie is looking at him the way he does, all intent and earnest and  _ caring _ . 

It makes Gary uncomfortable, a little bit. It's hard to keep up the whole banterous rivals who still hate each other thing when one of them so clearly doesn't. Jamie probably does it on purpose. The bastard.

"You'll be fine." Jamie gives him an encouraging grin. "Honest. At least this is something you've done before. Not well, but y'know."

Gary scoffs, a bit of colour coming back into his cheeks. "Better than you."

"You wish. I held down the fort while you abandoned me and the kids for your summer fling, I've gotten pretty good at this."

There it is again. Gary turns red and Jamie looks over, a conspiratorial smirk on his face.

"Thanks, Carra."

"No worries."

"And - " this one's doubly hard, but it has to be said; Gary can't count the number of times Phil knocked on his door in Valencia, grinning like an absolute tool, another article clutched in his hands. The  _ I'll miss him _ s written between the lines of  _ he'll always be a good pundit _ . He wishes he knew when they had gotten to that stage, that he could tell exactly what Jamie was thinking without him even being there. "Thanks for, y'know. The back-up. The. Um. Belief."

It's Jamie's turn to look awkward and he rubs the back of his neck as if reaching for something to do. "Ah, y'know," he says off-hand, scuffing the floor with his shoes. "They were giving you a lot of stick. And that's my job."

"Still." Gary tilts his head and sort of makes a little hand gesture, as if that could convey everything. Jamie's eyes are searching as he stares, and then in the calculated balance of seriousness and banter that he seems to have mastered over their three years together, he says:

"Love ya, ya daft twat."

Gary's brain might have short-circuited. He opens his mouth but no sound comes out, and Jamie thinks this immensely funny. "Don't worry," he rolls his eyes, standing up and heading for the door. "I know you can't say the L-word because you're an emotionally repressed Manc. But I do mean it."

Then he leaves, and Gary stares at the door not knowing what to think.

The show goes better than expected; David is nervous but hides it well and Jamie is at the peak of his gleeful rubbing-it-in prowess. Gary thinks he comes off it all right, even managing to squeeze in a crack at Jamie before the night's out. And then David asks him about Jamie and management.

Gary wants to make another joke. It's all laid out for him, and all he has to do is pick and choose the easiest duck shoot:  _ as long as it's not in Spain, Spaniards trying to speak English, a Scouser trying to speak English; the only thing he'd be able to coach them in is own goals; as long as they're happy with not winning the league for twenty years _ .

Which is why he chooses, instead, to say, "he's got the right type of brain for it."

Jamie blinks. And he keeps on blinking as Gary talks, his surprise mirroring Gary's own. Shakes his head ever so slightly when Gary says "he'll get bored of sitting here next to you and me". Smiles a little bit, as if he understands what Gary's trying to tell him, about trust and belief and gratitude, without having to say the L-word out loud.

After the show they walk back to their cars together, still close enough that Gary can feel Jamie's shoulder through his jacket. Jamie's car is closer and Gary follows him there before turning away, but Jamie catches his sleeve.

"Thanks," he says. "For the belief."

Gary gives him a small smile.

"No worries. I figured no one else was going to do it."

Jamie rolls his eyes even then. "And, um." He coughs out a laugh, though they both know it's his way of pretending. "That thing I said. I know it's a strong word. I won't say it again."

"But you do," Gary sighs like he finds it annoying. Jamie smirks.

"Unfortunately."

Gary stands in the middle of the carpark and watches Jamie drive off, heart still on his sleeve, and feels his own begin to leak a little bit, red dripping down his arm and pooling in his clenched fist. He waits till Jamie turns at the end of the road and then it's all quiet, just him and the sliver of moonlight that flashes through the trees.

"I do too, you know," he says.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- watch jamie's 'he's just happy to have you back' embarrassing smile [here](https://twitter.com/SkySportsNewsHQ/status/765222119621791744) (at abt 1:25)  
> \- [haven't looked at anyone like this since gary left](https://twitter.com/Carra23/status/780484661516574720)  
> \- honestly every single one of carra's articles and interviews during the valencia period was supportive boyfriends so HAVE AT ALL OF THEM  
> \- the [fling](https://twitter.com/Carra23/status/762207021055737856)  
> \- ['love's a strong word'](https://youtu.be/osjA0b5ktKU?t=8m49s)  
> \- [ALL OF THE REUNION!!](http://www.fullmatchesandshows.com/2016/08/15/monday-night-football-premier-league-round-1-full-show/)


End file.
